Past, Present, and Future
by Lil'MissGoodyTwoShoes
Summary: Molly Hooper once mourned long and hard for her now dead father. Little did she know, Sherlock Holmes was right there with her, mourning that exact same man.


_**Summary: **Molly Hooper once mourned long and hard for her now dead father. Little did she know, Sherlock Holmes was right there with her, mourning that exact same man._

_**Disclaimer: **__Oh, how I would so love to run through the streets claiming to have made the infamous detective come to life. Alas, I do not own the brains or the beauty that is Sherlock Holmes._

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><p>Many years ago, when his curls were still cute and his ways were just charming, Sherlock Holmes met a man whom he never <em>truly<em> forgot. While the memories of said man were dusty and dingy, hidden in those dark corners of cobwebs in Sherlock's mind palace, they were never really forgotten.

They lay there, like an old teddy bear: their hair had been worn away at the hands of the child who loved them, their stitching had been frazzled by so many years of groping, and a beady black eye had long since been plucked off by small, curious fingers. But still they sat, in that cluttered attic, collecting dust.

At first glance, this man was not remarkable, by any means, but he was not really ordinary, either. He was petite, standing no taller than five and a half feet or so, with mousy brown hair and a sparse mustache.

However, as thin as his hair might seem and as sparse as his mustache may be, a young Sherlock was transfixed by the warmth held so fearlessly in this man's round brown eyes. It also fascinated him that this man ran like clockwork. He could always be found outside the fairgrounds, a long stem of hay perched between his old, stained teeth. And soon, Sherlock found himself revisiting everyday, confiding in this stranger more than even his own busybody father.

And this stranger, whom Sherlock came to so readily trust, enjoyed the company, rattling off the most absurd deductions of London passerby to the young boy seated next to him.

Now, Sherlock was a fast learner (how could he not be?) and soon picked up on this rather interesting habit, making deductions of his own. But, no matter how many times he tried, the old man's were always better, more becoming.

So, the proud, self-obsessed adolescent he was, he never asked for a hint or a clue, but rather went about it his own way, learning from his mistakes.

And he was good, no doubt about it, but he was never as good as that little, old man, adoringly called 'Mister,' huddled on that dreary street corner.

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><p>Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and it was no different for that funny old man that had lived on that lane for so long.<p>

His death was not unexpected, nor was it taken lightly, but it did break Sherlock Holmes, broke him right in two. For now, the cold metallic, claws of life had stolen the souls of both Redbeard and Mister from him, never to be returned. There was no more jumping from rooftop to rooftop, running through back alleys or narrow streets with the agile hound at his side. Nor were there any more wonky deductions made about the grotesque citizens of England, sitting alongside the man that had taught him all he knew.

No, he was all alone, left to do what he did best. Left to appraise and detail every human being, to make all their problems go away.

For many years after the burial, Sherlock dwelt on that grimy street corner. He befriended the druggies that set up shop there, even taking some for himself. He solved the mediocre crimes that found their way to him, passed along by the word of mouth.

And eventually, he moved into the tidy, little flat of 221 B Baker Street with John (at his brother's insistence). But for a very, very, very long time, those precious memories of adventure and action, enthralled him, repeatedly playing through his head, telling their tales again.

He even found a new Redbeard, of sorts. John followed him most everywhere, the loyal comrade that he was. And Molly took the place of her father, her eyes just as warm, her spirit just as kind.

But he never _really_ replaced them, for those were the only two things that made him human. And perhaps that's why most everyone insisted he wasn't human, his soul long gone, his heart hard as stone.

And perhaps they were right.

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><p>As silly as it may seem, Sherlock Holmes was indeed a forgetful man. And that was why he was so grudgingly grateful for the ever present reminder of Molly Hooper. However, it still surprised him when she reminded him of that dull, old man on the outskirts of the muddy fairgrounds.<p>

Her hair was that same mousy color, with that same stringy texture, and that same hollow frame. But her eyes held a fire so much like those of that same man, that he was reminded oh-so-fortuitously of those cold days spent with his mentor.

One brisk day, as he sat perfectly perched on a wooden stool at his favorite microscope, Sherlock was interrupted, quite abruptly he might add, by a rather odd question.

"Did you ever have any pets growing up, Sherlock?"

The detective looked up at the skinny pathologist standing in front of him, wooden clipboard clutched much too tightly to her chest.

"Yes," he grumbled, going for that _'honesty is the best policy'_ rubbish John insisted upon.

"Me, too. I mean it was a long time ago, but I had a hound, a bright red one," Molly told him. He really hoped she was going somewhere with this, lest it be a _complete_ waste of his time.

"Really?"

"Yes. But then my dad got rid of him, 'got too expensive,' he said."

"Shame," he tried to console her. He really was spending much too much time with John it would seem.

"Yeah, I think you would've liked him..." she trailed off a far away look haunting the spirited light that would normally be found there.

"Really? And what was his name?" He really was tired of this subject and was looking forward to returning to his ground-breaking research soon.

"Redbeard. I always called him Redbeard," she murmured.

Sherlock froze, kicking himself for not putting two and two together. Of course he would've liked the dog, he _had_ liked that dog.

All too soon, he was back in those cobblestone streets, chasing after Mister's big, red hound, slipping on the muck. All too soon, he was curled up in the feathery hair on Redbeard's belly, dozing peacefully once again. All too soon, he was at his dead dog's side, nose buried in the cold corpse of his childhood friend.

And all too soon, he was out the morgue doors, his billowing, black Belstaff nothing but a flurry behind him.

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><p>Sherlock Holmes was also not a man of feelings, thought this reality surprised very few people. He was haunted by his past, estranged by his present, and fearful of his future.<p>

He refused to live in the past or present, preferring to dwell in a Purgatory of sorts, neither here nor there.

He was burdened by his debts, his load weighed down with the consequences of his cold, cruel self. The Fall was no different. If he was perfectly honest with himself (which he never really was), he was scared out of his mind. But his mind was much too precious, his mustn't leave it. There could be no sweaty palms, skepticism, or nerves. No, there must only be a confident stride and a courageous approach.

His rather dreary train of thought and world-class line of work was quickly interrupted (once again) by none other than the one person he needed the most.

"You look a bit like my dad. He's dead. Oh, sorry..." Molly blushed a deep shade of red, exasperated she had made such a macabre mistake.

"When he was dying, he was always cheerful. He was lovely. Except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad. You look sad... when you think he can't see you." She paused carefully weighing her words.

"Are you okay? Don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."

Sherlock looked at her, desperate to tell her the truth, to say that, no, he wasn't okay. He was dying to ask for her help. But if there was one thing the infamous detective was good at, it was refusing the help of anyone else-he was fiercely independent, just as anyone, especially her father, would tell you.

But he was Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective-cold, cruel, calculating, corrupt. He wouldn't, couldn't, change, for he was just a coward, crouching at the foot of hell.

He was no longer human, hadn't been for some time.

He went through the actions, he was a stupendous liar, no doubt about it.

But he was hopelessly lost. He often saw that crooked, clever man whom he had never quite put to rest, standing there, just as he had when he left him. Just as he had when he was shot, his blood pooling in scarlet puddles. Just as he had when he saved the life of Sherlock Holmes.

And how could he tell her that?

How could he tell Molly that her father had died protecting _him_?

He couldn't.

He just couldn't.

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><p><strong>Yes, well you see, that cute little bugger down there that says, "Review?" Yup, that guy. He's just a smidge lonely, down there all by himself. Looks like he could use some company, wouldn't you agree?<strong>


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